Compassion Bares Her Teeth
by OnyxDrake
Summary: Ilvin Lavellan sets out with Solas and Varric to hunt wolves that have been troubling farmers, but what the Inquisitor discovers is far more troubling than she at first considered.


"Herald, I'm afraid I must disagree," the fierce-eyed Seeker says. "We have greater concerns to face. The mages and templars are tearing up the countryside and you want us to divert resources to put down _vermin_?"

"Without their livestock, the farmers have nothing. Especially since their crops have been burnt thanks to our 'friends' and their stupid war. Don't you think these people have suffered enough?" I wish to add that being human and of clearly noble birth she's clearly never had to endure a winter without food. Not to mention that the farmers in question are elves barely eking out an existence. What, do we subsist on fresh air and sunshine? Do birds flock to us and feed us nuts and berries?

The Seeker grimaces, her knuckles growing white as she grips the edge of the foldout table in the tent that serves as our makeshift war room and my personal quarters. "I forbid it."

"You _forbid_ it?" My magic crackles at my fingertips, raising static on my nape.

I return her glare with a frosty one of my own, and after an eternity, she's the one who breaks eye contact. That's a first.

"Oh, do what you must!" she exclaims then strides out of the tent.

I'm left clenching my hands, feeling oddly empty at my pyrrhic victory. "I will," I murmur, but I'm suddenly not entirely certain of myself.

"That went…well," the dwarf says, all quiet like from the corner where he's been polishing that damned crossbow of his all this time. So still, I've hardly noticed he's there, and he's no doubt going to find a way to scribble a version of today's argument into one of his tawdry tales.

"I can't do anything right, Varric." I suck in a deep breath and wipe with the back of my wrists at my eyes that have gone unaccountably scratchy.

"Give the Seeker some time."

"I'm… I'm not used to people disagreeing with me."

"Neither is she, Lily my lady." He shrugs. "Clash of wills."

"I _will_ help those farmers," I say. "And I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"I don't doubt it." He nods, his smile enigmatic as he rises as he straightens his duster. "Want me to go fetch Chuckles?"

I nearly sob with an unaccountable sense of relief. "I didn't ask—"

"You didn't think we'd let you go haring off on your own did you? You forget who got that rage demon with a lucky bolt yesterday. You might've been turned into a crispy-baked Dalish biscuit otherwise."

"I swear I saw that demon! I was just—"

"Your back was turned."

"Varric," I warn.

His laughter trails after him as he slips out of the tent, leaving me alone with the map's curling edges pressed down with stones. The interior is muggy, and I go sit on my cot. Of course the Herald of bloody Andraste gets the biggest tent, and for now I'm grateful for the privacy. I'm still shaking from the altercation with Cassandra and need time to compose myself before I face the curious glances of those who've no doubt heard every word of our argument. We've had nothing but a series of altercations since she threatened me in the cell a few weeks ago when this entire sorry debacle with the breach started, and I'm tired, overwhelmed and _struggling_ to find that small piece of me who used to know what was what.

Things were so simpler back when I was with my clan.

So very far away.

The late summer sun drizzles everything in gold, the leaves just beginning to lose the edge of green that marks the height of the season. The three of us trudge up from the camp, Solas taking the lead, with Varric acting as rear-guard. The cicadas' high-pitched sawing grates on my hearing, and I grip my staff, my senses taut as I cast about for anything that might resemble a rebel mage or templar. One cannot be too careful. Especially when engaging in a foolhardy mission such as this. Because Cassandra has a point. We need to focus on the bigger things, yet I can't rid myself of the vision of that young couple—one babe in arms, another on the way, and with winter just around the corner. As much as I admire wolves, they have become brazen and downright dangerous with so much death breeding in the Hinterlands.

The Seeker's absence on our mission is a sore tooth I keep probing. She should be here. We're a _team_. I can hear Keeper Deshanna already telling me in dry tones that I'll need to make amends, that my current behaviour is churlish. She'd laugh if I were able to tell her that every dire prediction she's made about me over the years has come true—my impulsiveness has bitten me on my rump.

Our route brings us to Lake Luthias, where we rest after our ascent. The lake really is as pretty as I've heard Scout Harding say, the water's mirrored surface cobalt beneath an equally blue sky. Swallows dip and weave on sickled wings, sending tiny ripples as they dive for their drinks. The softest of breezes brings with it the green scent of fresh water, and I want nothing more than to dip my feet in the shallows, or recline in the long grass and let dappled light play on my lids.

"I never get tired of this view." Solas stands on an outcropping, his long-fingered hands clasped loosely behind his back. His legs are muscular, straight.

"I'm sure Lily could get used to the view," Varric chirps in with a salacious wink.

My face unaccountably warm, I shoot a pained grimace at the dwarf but he seems incredibly fascinated by the contents of his pocket. If Solas is aware of Varric's insinuations, he doesn't respond. Well, his back is turned towards me, in any case.

"You've been here before, Solas?" I try to keep my tone light.

"Once, a good while back, I had the chance to dream. Upon that little island. There is a spirit beneath the lake's silvered surface, who grants wishes, it is said."

"Oh?"

"She is lonely," he adds.

A faint howl sends prickles along my skin and our attention is drawn farther to the west, and our duty.

"Best get going then," I say. "Daylight won't last forever."

We'll be headed back after dark, perhaps even camping out, and the autumn nights are chill this high up in the foothills. All around us are signs of conflict—burnt-out husks of dwellings, abandoned logging stands. But there are older signs too, of the ancient shemlen who used to call this land home. Their peculiar primitive sculptures snarl at our passing, enshrouded in ivy and furred with moss.

Twilight finds us in a narrow ravine, picking our way between boulders. We've seen promising spoor of a lone wolf. The dwarf's struggling to keep up; he's not as agile when it comes to rock hopping, which is why Solas and I have a considerable lead on him when we find the wolf.

The creature is scarred and scrawny, and though it lunges for us, teeth bared, it collapses in a heap as if jerked back by an unseen hand. We soon discover why, for metal clinks. The jaws of a trap are clasped firmly around the beast's left forepaw, all the way until the elbow.

Its muzzle is flecked with pink foam and its eyes roll madly; it is in considerable pain.

Solas stands half before me, his quickly cast barrier creating a greenish haze through which we view the world. This close to him I can smell the muskiness of his scent. Or is it the wolf's fear? I'm not certain.

"Someone's taken the initiative to deal with our wolves," Solas murmurs.

I swallow. "Fenedhis."

"Indeed." Solas lets the barrier fall. After all, we can see its reach where the chain has scoured the ground clean of debris.

I crouch so I can study the creature then wish I hadn't, and my stomach turns at the sight of exposed bone. "It's chewed through most of its leg to get free." My gorge rises and I stumble to my feet.

Solas catches me before I trip over a rock.

Me, a Dalish elf who's helped skin deer and set broken bones, nearly ill for having seen a self-inflicted injury caused in great desperation.

Then I'm aware that I'm leaning too close to him, how corded his muscles are beneath the near-shapeless tunic he insists on wearing.

"I'm fine." I step back, smear sweaty hair out of my eyes.

The wolf's lip curls back from ivory fangs as it snarls, and I maintain a respectful distance from the creature.

"It's just not right," I say to Solas. "That this wild animal should be caught in a trap. I was hoping… I was hoping for a clean death. An honourable death."

But it's brought home to me that either way would have resulted in an end. Except one option would not be accompanied by hours of torture.

Solas frowns. "We could still free it. I have seen wild creatures survive quite well with missing limbs."

"What sort of life is that?" I ask. "Crippled, forever at a disadvantage among its brethren?"

"It is a life," he says with a shrug, "that can be chosen. In freedom."

"When you're _suffering_."

He narrows his storm-grey eyes. "When is life not suffering? Freedom sets its own price."

I turn my gaze towards the wolf still crouched as far from us as its chains will allow. Its fur is matted with saliva and gore, its ribs apparent. Wild topaz eyes burn in its black muzzle. Even if it survives without its foot, how will it hunt? Its pack will most likely turn on it, and it will have to feed on carrion and the leavings of others. The Creators know there're more than enough foolish mages and templars laying out a feast for crows at present.

The conflict won't last forever, and there won't always be easy meals to be had for a three-legged wolf. I see the beast shivering in the snow, alone, and that is when my heart understands what I need to do.

"No, Solas. Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain. _Living_ like that is not the answer."

I draw on my mana, concentrate a single bolt of lightning. There's a bright flash. The stench of burning hair. Not even a whimper and the light is gone forever from the wolf's eyes.

"Dareth shiral, ma fen," I whisper.

When I turn, I'm in time to see Solas striding off back the way we came, his back straight.

His obvious anger compounds my distress, and I sink down next to the dead wolf, hollowed out.

"Ir abelas," I say, but the words are but fallen leaves.

That's how Varric finds me—with my brow pressed against the solidity of my ironwood staff. His hand is warm on my shoulder.

"Lily. The shadows are growing long and Chuckles is already halfway back to camp by now."

"I didn't have a choice, Varric. Not really."

"You did what you had to." His eyes are warm with compassion and his grip is strong when he draws me to my feet. "Did I ever tell you about that time Hawke and I…"

He has me laughing out loud, lighter than sparks flying on an evening fire by the time we step out of the ravine. Varric and his stories. Somehow they have a way of healing. Reminding me what's important—the connections we make, the fellow travellers who join us on our way, albeit only for a short while.

I understand, in my heart of hearts, that I've done the right thing for that poor wolf. Even if it was not the animal that was harrying the farmer's livestock. Or even if it was, for it was already in poor condition—hence perhaps not in a pack any longer.

I could spend the rest of my life trying to justify every decision I make. Life is too short for that.

It's later, moonrise, when I slip away to the lake—taking the more difficult route up past the falls where there's less chance that I'll be spotted. I admit that I find it thrilling that I've outfoxed the sentries. It's foolish. I'm taking a huge risk doing this, but I need to get away. The moons are both risen and it's near bright as day, and though the last of the summer's heat still lays her hand on the earth, autumn's chilly breath whispers at the tips of my ears.

The lake's water is icy, and I only wade in as far as my knees. Tiny ripples of phosphorescence spread outward from my progress and I stand for a while, simply drinking in the quiet and wondering who lives in the tiny cabin across the way that spills its buttery light into the darkness. Apart from the frog chorus in the reeds and the constant rumble-rush of the falls, it's possible for me to believe that down in the valley the mages and templars aren't tearing each other to pieces.

How are my people? Even now, is one of my clan gazing up at the stars and wondering what's happened to their long lost First? Has word reached Deshanna yet or has she sung a lament for me?

Yet I'm not so lost in my thoughts that I am unaware that I am no longer alone. Solas may walk on silent feet, but I am alert to the sense of being stared at, of how his gaze envelops me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him standing next to a mountain willow, one hand pressed against the trunk.

"I'm not sorry for what I did," I say. "And I'm not going to justify my actions either."

"I don't expect you to," he returns then steps out into a patch of moonlight that sculpts the contours of his face. He is not a handsome man, but he is certainly striking. "I would not assume to know the workings of your mind."

"Life is precious," I tell him. "And it's not so much the quantity of life that we lead, but the quality of it."

His lip twitches in what I construe to be a wry smile at my attempts at philosophising. "And yet, we can live with an eternity of regret. We are all shaped by the consequences of our actions, and how we respond to the actions of others. To feel nothing, no remorse, would turn one into a monster."

"I am not a monster," I say.

"I know."

"I have never felt this alone, surrounded by others. I came out here because…"

"You don't need to say it."

A long moment passes between us. I grow conscious of how bone chillingly cold the water is, and that my feet are slowly becoming numb. And there's the way he's watching me, as if he's truly seeing me for the first time.

Voices intrude, shemlen headed our way, their booted feet heavy.

As one, we freeze. I reach for my staff just as the Seeker calls out, "Herald, is that you?"

Solas offers an apologetic shrug. "I came to tell you, you were missed, but I see they've picked up your trail."

"Thank you anyway." Whatever moment we'd shared has flown.

"It is I!" I call to the Seeker. I can already hear Deshanna's mental lecture about not going to sleep angry with someone.

When I turn to Solas, he has slipped away between the shadows without my noticing.


End file.
